Flux Effect
by ValentineDiverseOptics
Summary: Life is never what you expect. The rules change without warning. Two years after waking up in a Citadel hospital, an innocent night's drinks change the course of a man's life. Foreknowledge is flawed, and he must decide what his path is. SI
1. Chapter 1

Flux Effect

* * *

A Mass Effect Fic

* * *

_A/N: Oh look, another Mass Effect SI fic. How original. Well, let's hope that this take has a few new twists, hopefully enjoyable ones. First, let's get the basics out of the way. Mass Effect and all associated characters are not my property. They remain Bioware and EA's. I'm just enjoying playing in the sandbox. It's a great universe, even given the occasional misstep. I hope you folks enjoy my take on this genre. Further thanks and acknowledgements at the end of the chapter._

* * *

Uncut batarian ale is expensive, exotic, and has a smooth taste. The proof is frankly obscene, and isn't the kind of thing you drink if you want to remember the night. It's become a favorite of mine.

It's also the kind of thing to never drink alone, and _never_ when depressed over being hurled out of your universe and into the detonation of an eezo core. That one, admittedly, is a personal rule…not many others having cause to even consider it.

You shouldn't even do it if, like me, it's your two year anniversary of waking up blind in a hospital, your left arm dead numb and full of dust and shard form eezo, malnourished and recovering from exposure. Not even if after they turned on your new artificial eyes, complete with light blue glow, they send you in for major brain surgery because your genes code for biotic adaptation and your arm might as well be a disruptor torpedo for all you know how to do with it.

This is strictly against the rules of good sense.

If you're mourning the loss of your fiancée and son, you should not head up the to the "aught" blocks of Zakera Ward, and go to the club called Flux, which incidentally, has some quasar stations in the back, walk up to the bar and ask Jenna for 307 Ale. You should not do it alone, and particularly not with a gun in your jacket.

"Hey, Chris."

I look over to see one of my better acquaintances, then flick my finger along my sunglasses in a sketchy salute. "Hey, Jake." Jake is an Alliance reservist, a member of my battalion during off-semester training. He also works as the bouncer at Flux.

Guess what I'm doing?

"I think there's an open table down in the corner."

For a bonus round, guess what accounts for the .8 kilos of mass hanging out under my left armpit.

"Jenna's section?" Seriously, Jenna might soon be heading out to Chora's Den to help Chellick, but she's definitely a better waitress than Rita. Wish there was a way to keep her here without obstructing the gears of justice. I sincerely doubt one more former waiter tipping generously here will outweigh her civic responsibility.

He nods. "Yeah. I hear she might be looking for another job, though, so enjoy it while it lasts."

With two years of practice dissembling, these sorts of things come easily. "Damn shame. Can't imagine why she'd want to abandon so many regulars."

He shrugs and leans back against the wall. "Got me. Have a good night, alright?"

With being a former waiter comes a powerful ability to project fake cheer. "I'll be doing my best." I wander over to the corner table, not my favorite, since it's a little out of sight of the server station, but probably better for my mood tonight. The acoustics cut a few decibels off the club's music, and depressed drinking doesn't go over well in sight of a dance floor. Jenna is over in no time at all. "The usual, Chris?"

I shake my head. "307 Ale, Jenna."

She laughs at the reference to the ancient song, still floating around the extranet. "Got a big sale?"

"Yes, but it's actually for a special occasion. Bring a carafe."

"Gotcha." She flashes a flirty waiter's smile at me. "Be right back with the good stuff."

I pull out my datapad to check my emails one last time before I forget business and in fact the whole universe I'm living in. Nothing of note, just a few inquiries that will keep till tomorrow. Jenna drops off the carafe and a glass, reflexively hoping that I'll have a good night. I thank her and pour a finger of the ale, lips quirking at the bright green heated liquor. "Here's to reality," I murmur before tossing the glass back.

The warm drink is traditionally served hotter than this carafe, due to batarian throats being a tad hardier than human ones. I burned myself a few times before Doran got it right, but the smooth taste kept me coming back for more. This time is perfect, the heat bringing out smoky undertones and seeming to spread through my body. Before the taste fades from my tongue, I pour myself two more fingers and swirl the glass, watching the liquid climb the synthcrystal. "L'chiam." The sip I take is better than tossing off the first finger, letting the alcohol roll around on my tongue. Exquisite.

"Is that some asari toast?" I look up to see a lady with cinnamon toast skin, dark black hair, and an impish smile. Recognition tickles at the back of my mind, but nothing comes to my tongue. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Still trying to figure out where I've seen this lady before, I nod. "Hebrew, actually."

"Oh, you're Jewish?" She's lean with long arms, developed shoulders and legs, and I imagine a great core under the white dress that hugs her curves like it was painted on. The drink she's holding makes me think of mulled honey mead. At my nod she smiles. "I'm a bad Catholic myself."

"Huh." I take another sip of the ale, still trying to figure out where I know this girl from. Before the alcohol makes my head any fuzzier, I decide on the direct approach. "Sorry, but I've got the feeling I should recognize you, and I'm drawing a blank."

She laughs, a very endearing sound. "My name's Abby. I was in your Eezo Dynamics 267." She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "Sorry, but when I saw you carrying a giant block of ballistics gel into an optics lab, I knew I had to ask you about it. Then I hear you're in the ROTC, and you just got even more interesting."

I raise an eyebrow at that. "Most people at SIT aren't much for the ROTC."

"I'm not most people. My sis is a Gunnery Chief in the Alliance. Dad served too." She sips at her drink.

"To the Alliance then?" I ask, raising my glass.

"The Alliance," she agrees and we clink glasses. "So what were you doing with the gel?"

"I run a specialized custom shop on the side. I was testing one of my products."

"In an optics lab?"

"Yeah." I run my tongue over my teeth. "I don't really work with mass accelerators."

"Wait. No." She points at me, wide-eyed. "Are you saying you built a laser rifle?"

This gets a laugh out of me, the ale starting to get a foothold. "Technically without rifling in a barrel…or in fact a barrel at all, it can't be a rifle…"

"No way. You can't make a worthwhile laser gun."

I shake my head. "You can't cheaply, I'll admit. But the information's all there, out on the extranet, even. I just put it together first." I could go on longer than that, having made a tidy living on the subject, but technical conversations are not really drinking topics.

She takes a deeper drink of the honey-colored liquid in her glass. "And it works?"

"I was spitting out chunks of gel after the first full-power shot," I affirm.

"Next you're going to tell me you've figured out how to set a laser to stun," she laughs.

"That was actually pretty easy."

"You're shitting me." Abby reaches across the table and pushes me playfully.

"No, I'm serious. You ionize a path through the air with a laser pulse, then use it as a guide for current. There's another method too, but I haven't really experimented with it."

"Wait, that's cheating." Well, so was me taking all the ideas from half-remembered internet readings before I ended up here, but they say invention is 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration, so I figure I'm close. "You're not really setting the laser to stun."

"That's what you do with the other method," I point out.

"But you don't use it," she says with a mock-accusing finger. "So you're cheating. Hah. I win." She takes a triumphant drink, draining her glass.

I hold my hands up in supplication. "Fair, fair. As forfeit, I'll buy your next drink." As the ale takes greater and greater effect, depressing mourning seems like less and less of a good idea, even by drunk logic.

"What are you having?" She asks.

"Batarian ale. Uncut." I watch to see that she doesn't take a swing on me in drunk patriotism.

Instead she dissolves into laughter. "That's awesome!"

"What?"

"You just toasted the Alliance with _batarian_ ale. I gotta get in on this." I motion for a glass, which Jenna brings promptly, and pour Abby a finger. "To the Alliance," she laughs.

"The Alliance!" We clink glasses and toss back the ale. I laugh as she coughs, not expecting the heat.

"That's damn good," she croaks out, holding out her glass for more. "So what's the name of the guy that just bought me a drink?"

"Chris," I say, pouring in two fingers this time. "What shall we toast this time?"

She smiles over the rim of her glass. "Well, I can think of at least five fleets to start with."

"I like the way you think," I reply.

We make it through all five fleets and a few divisions before the ale is gone.

* * *

I wake up with a pounding headache, sore muscles, and a very nude bedmate. "Ugh." I sit up, shaking my head. That proves to be a mistake, as the pain nearly sends me reeling to the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and grope for the painkillers I placed on the side of the bed before heading to Flux. My clumsy search sends the bottle skittering away, but not before spilling enough tablets to get a maximum dose. These, I swallow dry before falling back to the pillow.

It's some minutes before I decide to rise again and look at my bedmate. As expected when I woke up, it's Abby, and my earlier suspicions on a well-developed core are confirmed. She has a fencer's build and firm, high breasts. As she shifts in her sleep, I note a number of bruises that are almost certainly hickeys. Given everything…

I groan. Given everything, I just celebrated my unofficial anniversary of losing my fiancée and son by getting stone drunk in a bar and having a one night stand. Hardly the night I had planned, though if I'm honest, it does beat playing Russian roulette with a pulse laser, which strikes me as the kind of thing I might have considered had Abby not shown up.

I slide out of bed and pad over to the bathroom, looking for a reasonably clean glass to get water with. It's only after a minute or two of searching that I remember I actually cleaned, remembering *****'s pushing on the subject, and head to the kitchen. Three glasses later, my throat is feeling human again, and I'm standing in front of the bathroom sink, pupils glowing at me from the mirror.

Two years and those artificial eyes still make my face a stranger's, just like the scars all over my left side transformed my body. In reflex, I check the inert plug that fills my L4 port, keeping the implant operating at standby. The smooth polymer is in place, like always.

"I wondered why you always wore those sunglasses," says Abby. I open my eyes to see her in the mirror, as nude as she had been when I left her.

"Feel free to freak out now," I mutter, splashing water across my face.

She doesn't. "How long?"

"Two years and one day." I gesture at the scarring on my left arm and torso. "That's when this happened too." I cock my head to the side. "Or at least that's when I learned about it."

She winces. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

I sigh. "It's better than most of the reactions I get. Look…" I turn to face her. "How much do you remember?"

She shrugs, which does enticing things to her chest. "Toasting the Alliance with batarian ale, making out in a skycar…not the sex, though, which is a shame, way I'm feeling. You?"

I rack my brain, and vague snippets of off-key singing come to mind, along with being warned by a turian C-Sec officer, and a flash of Abby's face as she orgasms. "Pretty much the same, I guess. I think a cop caught us in the car."

"Damn." Abby shakes her head. "Woulda been sexy to fuck under the nebula."

"I'd rather a private car," I muse. "You do realize this was a one-time thing, right?"

She rolls her brown eyes. "Duh. What do you take me for, some dewey-eyed spacer who thinks sex only happens with your true love? You were smashed, I was blitzed, we had a good time. Not saying I wouldn't object to a repeat, maybe with a little less booze, but high romance, this was not."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm not entirely over my fiancée yet." Understatement of the decade.

Abby winces. "Two years ago?"

I nod. "Two years ago."

"Come not, when I am dead,  
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,  
To trample round my fallen head,  
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.  
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;  
But thou, go by."

It's obviously a memorized poem. Tennyson, if I'm right. She leans against the doorframe. "L'chaim, right? To life?"

"That's one way of looking at it, I guess." I nod towards the shower. "Go ahead and take first crack. I'll go find your clothes and make some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"

"Scrambled." Abby flows over and hugs me. "Thank you." A kiss on the cheek. "I am sorry about her." She slides into the shower and is soon obscured by steam.

"Yeah." I turn away from the tempting sight and pull on a pair of boxers before searching for Abby's clothes. Everything but her panties soon make a stack on the bed, her underwear nowhere to be found. Breakfast is a simple affair, eggs and toast with something that imitates bacon rather admirably. I'm dipping my second slice of toast in my eggs' yolks when Abby joins me, wrapped in a towel.

"My implant read green on the function check. We should be in the clear." She digs into the eggs. "Sunny side up? Really?"

"I like dipping my toast," I protest before scarfing the last of my bacon substitute.

"Laser rifles and sunny side up eggs. You're some kind of weird, Chris."

"Some kind of dirty, more like. I'll be back." I put my plate in the dishwasher and head for my shower.

Apparently Abby didn't see fit to mess with my temp settings, which suits me fine. I like my showers just a degree under scalding, the better to work out kinks and knots in my muscle. That became rather more critical after the eezo core detonation. It's not uncommon for me to become slightly light-headed from the heat as I work on my muscles. I give a grim chuckle. My predilection towards long showers always amused or irritated *****, depending if we had somewhere we needed to go. Now it's practically necessary, and one of the reasons I settled on the Citadel, even after promising myself I would never interfere with the flow of canon. There's only so many places that have the tankage to provide a good shower.

And this is a good shower, hot and long, plenty of opportunity to stretch out and limber up. I run through an abbreviated set of short-energy motions, focusing on the interplay between my muscles. Later I'll have to find time to put in time for a more complete form.

"And martial arts?"

I overextend on an elbow strike and crack it against the wall. "Son of a bitch!" I look over to see Abby, clothed, with a look halfway between amusement and apology.

"Sorry." The look tends more towards apology as I cradle my injured elbow. "I was going to ask if you knew where my panties were…then I got worried you'd fallen asleep in there or something."

"I've done that before," I admit. "And I have no idea where your panties are, sorry. You can borrow some boxers if you like."

She waves off the offer, perching herself on the sink. "I'll make do. Just have to be careful about how I sit, right?" She opens her legs fractionally.

I groan. "I get the feeling that this isn't going to be the last time I see you, is it?"

She flashes that impish smile again. "Well, you are going to have to return my panties when you find them…" Seeing me shake my head, she laughs. "Seriously though, Chris, I think you're a pretty interesting guy. Even if you're right and this was just a one-time thing, I certainly wouldn't mind being friends."

"I don't think I'd mind that either," I say after a moment. "It's just…two years is too short a time, you know." Especially when you spend most of it in a bout of repression.

"I think I get how you feel." She hops down from the sink and steps over to the shower. "Look, why don't we meet Thursday after classes at the cafeteria? You don't have any business you have to take care of, right?"

I shake my head. "No. Why?"

She smiles. "Let's make it a surprise. I think you'll like it, though." At the incredulous look on my face she laughs. "I'm serious."

"Okay."

"Good. Now, I can let myself out if you like, and you can spend the rest of the day thinking about the fact that I'm not wearing any panties." Her smile is positively wicked.

I shake my head in mock exasperation. "I get the feeling that sexual teasing is going to be one of the conditions of friendship, huh?"

Her laugh is accompanied by a shake of her head. "You kidding?" She runs a hand down her belly, leering at me. "That's one of the _benefits_, Chris. I'll see you on Thursday." With that she sashays out, leaving me to shut off the shower and run a hand through my hair.

The hell? I look back to the mirror, swiping a hand through the condensation. Scarred up, fucked up, and out of place. I might have approached handsome once, but with glowing eyes and eezo scarring, I'm a tad bit further away than I used to be, to say the least. I bite my lip. I never used to really believe ***** when she called me sexy, not entirely. Too many old memories. I suppose it's possible there's something there, but dammed if I can see it. Abby's questionable taste or not, there's another issue.

Given what she said last night, her last name is almost certainly Williams. I just fucked Ashley's sister, and I'm going to be meeting her again on Thursday for…something. I'm more than enough of a sci-fi fan to know how messing with a series of pre-ordained events tends to send things spiraling out of control, hence why I decided to stay out of the path of canon a week after I showed up. As nasty as some of the implications can be, Shepard gets it done, and doesn't need any help for me. Abby is a little close to that main canon. Sure she wasn't much more than a one-off mention in some ship dialogue where it was mentioned that she practiced the sword and liked 'tops you have to tie her into', but even the fact that I met someone mentioned in the game…

I swear viciously. The guy who goes drinking at _Flux_ of all places is worried about knowing Abby. Sure it's a good bar, but it's a place Shepard explicitly goes to. I should have never set foot in it. And selling pulse laser weaponry. Like that wouldn't mess with canon?

Well, the lasers are a small business, and when 3 rolls around, having the technology out there will help a lot. One of the major advantages the Reapers have is their incredibly tough barriers. Lasers ignore those. And as much as Shepard wins, it's awful Pyrrhic. If my putting lasers on the scene helps to win the war, so be it. I'll honestly be pretty happy with that.

As for Flux…I'm just a background character. Set dressing. Shepard would never talk to me. And Abby? Same. Not important, not going to derail what needs to happen. I blow out a breath. I want to believe myself, and it's still sounding like justification. Justification to help forget *****…and my son.

What the hell should I do?

* * *

_A/N: So, I'm not entirely a good person. This started as therapy writing, to deal with some fears about Ms. ***** and my life, but as usual with writing, the story has already taken on a life of it's own. I'd like to take a moment to thank Herr Wozzeck, TheRev28, and iNf3ctioNZ for providing excellent examples of the genre, as well as being very welcoming to questions. Hadij Drake also gets a shout out for reminding me that there's always a new take on a story, providing at least half the impetus to write this. Project Rho, especially Luke Campbell on that provides the lion's share of my tech and science checking. Like Chris implies, I'm cheating off your notes. _

_I hope you've enjoyed this first little bit of the fic_. _If you did, rest assured, there's more to come. (If you didn't...sorry?) I'm not going to make any promises on schedule, but I will lay out some promises to give you an idea of what to expect in the future. First, this will be a harder, more military sci-fi inspired story than most of what I've seen, and indeed, more so that canon in some ways. Technology, tactics, and logic will inform both the wins and losses for both sides of the conflict. There will be no overt 'space magic' and I will try and clean up some of the major plot holes that show up in the games. This will result in a different path than canon from the very beginning. While major elements will stick, hopefully you'll be as surprised as Chris will by the changes. With any luck, it should be an enjoyable ride for all of us._

_Till next time.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Flux Effect

* * *

I'm still asking myself that come Thursday. Apparently I'm tending towards justification, though, since I'm sitting in a booth of the cafeteria, looking for Abby as I try and force down the Shalta Institute of Technology's imitation of lasagna. I'm reminded, forcibly so, of the product of a Sirius Cybernetic Corporation Nutri-matic Drink Dispenser.

Actually, that might be a pretty good description for the Tupari I'm drinking right now.

"You actually eat that crap?" asks Abby as she slides into the seat next to me without me even twigging to her presence.

"How'd you…never mind." I shrug. "It fills my belly and provides nutrients." I take a bite, suppressing my shudder at the taste. "Good a reason as any, right?"

"Uh huh, and how's it taste?"

"Awful," I admit.

She smirks. "I win again." I push the Tupari towards her. "I said I win, not lose." I pull the can back. Again with the smirk. "So, did you find my panties yet?"

"Afraid not." I look over at her and shake my head. "What, was that your only pair or something?"

She laughs, and guides my hand under the table. "Want to find out?"

I jerk back as my fingers brush against her inner thigh. "No!"

Her face falls. "Sorry. I took that a little far, didn't I?"

I grimace. "Little bit."

"Yeah. I've always been a little blunt." She shrugs. "My sisters and I have a tendency to just go for things."

"I'll admit, it's kinda refreshing, but I'm not really feeling up to…"

"Feeling me up?"

"Especially not in public." I push away the travesty sold as lasagna. "So what's the surprise?"

She pats a duffel bag that I hadn't spotted before. "I thought I'd see if you'd like to meet some friends of mine."

"You keep your friends in a duffel?" I put a mock horrified look on my face. "Why do I get the feeling I should be running for the nearest hills?"

"Those are something like 10 light years from here." She gives me an odd look.

"I've got good shoes."

She smacks my shoulder. "Ass. Come on, let's go." She hefts the bag and heads for the door.

I dump the so-called food and follow.

* * *

Apparently, Abby and her friends have taken over a smaller gym for their get-together. There's six of them, three human, one turian, one asari, and one drell, and all of them are wearing non-Newtonian fluid reinforced clothing. All of them also have some sort of practice sword in their hands as well.

"Hey guys, this is Chris. He's going to be joining us today." Abby puts her duffel down and starts pulling out her padded gear, tossing me a set as well. I pull it on slowly, watching the six for any sign of welcoming or resentment. It's just as awkward a moment as whenever I joined a new dojo.

Thankfully the turian breaks the ice. "My name is Amulius. It is good to meet you."

I nod and smile as I fasten the jacket. "Likewise."

The others introduce themselves in short order. The drell is Aristides (or Rizzy, to hear Abby tell it), the asari, Eulalia. One of the humans, prematurely balding, is named Eric, and is, according to Abby, the best swordsman among them. I get a chuckle of remembrance at that, remembering my instructor in the European swords, and move on to the next two. They're twins, Silvia and Tomas, and though fraternal, look as much alike as a brother and sister can. "So Chris," asks Eric, "Have you used a sword before?"

"Years ago," I say sheepishly.

"What kind?" He seems honestly interested.

"Well, I learned a little Italian rapier, some German longsword, and I've practiced some Chinese and Japanese sword as well."

He raises an eyebrow. "You never settled on a blade?"

I shake my head. "Too much moving around. I took what I could get, to be honest."

"Spacer?" he asks.

I nod. It's true enough, if you're willing to ignore the twenty-odd years I spent on Earth before…well, before two years ago. All the time I've been in the universe of the mass effect, I've lived in space. Most of it on the Citadel, granted, but there was that hazy time of pain after the core went bang in my face, and I lay bleeding and starving on the deck of the eezo freighter that was apparently registered to 'my' family. "Yeah. And no one else in the family was really up for 'playing with swords'."

Amulius spreads his mandibles in what I've pegged as a turian grin. "Well, we're all fans of…" He motions with his talons to draw quotes, "…playing with swords here."

Never thought I'd be so happy to see a turian airquote. Abby hands me one of the practice swords, a long cut-and-thrust blade that would look at home on an _old_ pulp novel's cover. The straight blade tapers to a curving tip, foiled on this practice blade, but almost certainly needle-sharp on the live steel version. The guard is a bronze bell shape with an upsweeping quillon on the spine of the blade, and another thoroughly impractical quillon sweeping out from near the base of the guard. A diamond pommel caps the base, cast into the bell. "How's this feel?"

I sweep the blade through a series of cuts and guards, mixing my training together to find the proper use for this blade. The steel fairly sings in my hand, and I struggle to remember where I'd seen it's like before. "Excellent."

"Then why don't you use it?" asks Amulius, putting on a fencer's mask. "Kaor, Chris."

I laugh as I realize where the sword comes from, and take the mask Abby offers. "Kaor, Amulius." I fasten the mask and whip the Barsoomian longsword through a salute.

* * *

I can't help but think that John Carter would not be proud of me, covered in bruises even through the fluid jacket, but I can't keep the grin from my face as I unfasten the protective gear. It has been years since I was able to spar like that, even before ending up in this universe, and martial arts have always been a passion of mine. My chest heaves in gasping breaths as I try and recover from the fight, looking over to my opponent as Abby doffs her mask and fans herself with the jacket's lapel. Her face is as drenched in sweat as my own, hair plastered to her scalp. At least I made her work for her victory.

"Years out of practice, huh?" She laughs in between deep breaths. "I think you'll fit in here just fine, huh?"

Eric and Amulius both look very pleased, nodding strongly, and Silvia and Tomas give me welcoming smiles. Aristides looks far less happy, though he conceals it behind a veil of civility. Eulalia, the only one I could best consistently, looks sulky. I imagine she was looking forward to having someone she could hold her skills over, but the memory of any martial art never truly leaves your body. "That was a hell of a lot of fun," I say, finally having brought my breath close to normal, and heart rate down to merely speeding. "Do you do this every week?"

Eric nods. "Unless there's some conflict with a more official or larger group, yeah. Normally we don't do quite so much sparring, but…"

"It was a test," I say. "I got it. Kinda surprised you didn't run a bear pit drill on me until I collapsed."

"We can still do that if you like," offers Abby.

"I'm good," I say quickly, not liking the look that flashes across Aristides's face. "I think I'll hit the showers."

"This way," say Amulius, jerking his head towards a door in the wall. I fall in behind him.

* * *

Another hot shower. God, I love the Citadel's tankage.

"That's some scarring," says Amulius, taking a nearby head. "I thought you were in the Alliance Reserves."

I turn to him, getting an eyeful of naked turian. It's not a new experience, but it's still pretty novel. There's something undeniably alien about their carapace-covered bodies that sets them apart from the other races. It probably has something to do with the almost non-existence of gender dichotomy, at least to human eyes, as well. It makes sense. No race that evolves in such heavy radiation as the turians is going to want to keep it's gametes outside its protection. "I am. The scars have nothing to do with the military."

The look on his face is one of surprise…I think. I've dealt with plenty of turians, but their expressions are hard to read, given that speed of motion is almost as important as the motion itself. The next motion is apologetic. "An accident?"

I nod. "You could say that. I was too close to a detonating eezo core."

He winces. That's an easy one to read. "I'm sorry." He might have put together that I lost my family in the explosion, given the fact I've said I'm a spacer to him. He's definitely looking uncomfortable. "Look, can I try and steer the subject onto something that isn't a bad memory for you?"

I shrug. "Be my guest, but I'm pretty used to it by now. It's every person I meet, pretty much."

"Oh?" Now he looks intrigued.

"Yeah. Depending on what they see first, they ask about the eyes or scars first, then squirm when I mention the copious bang, knowing that I picked up the two at the same time, but still wanting to ask about the other. If they know I'm a spacer, they then dance around the fact that I almost certainly lost a person or people I cared about in the blast, which incidentally, I did."

"Every time?"

"Pretty much. Then, assuming they haven't spotted the implant port, they suddenly realize that I'm not dead of brain cancer…"

"They realize you must be biotic."

"And if they're human…"

"Or stupid," cuts in Amulius with a turian grin.

"They start thinking the scarred-up, glowing-eyed, biotic spacehound is going to suck out their soul."

"Or read their tiny minds," chuckles Amulius.

"Not much to see, even if I could. And it doesn't help that my eyes glow biotic blue." I roll my eyes. "Frankly, Amulius, you're way ahead."

"I still kind of feel like a jackass."

"Well, that's part of the reason. Look, would it help if I was a jackass back?"

"It might."

I nod. "Okay, on the subject of scars, you seem a little light. No cracked plates, no soft-tissue thickening…how, exactly?"

Turians don't blush. Amulius is pulling their equivalent of it, though. "That would have to do with my father."

I shut off my shower, and Amulius does the same. "I would figure any turian in the Heiarchy with the pull to get his son in the Shalta Institute of Technology would want his son to go through military service." I toss him a towel and start drying off myself.

"Well, I am military. Went through boot and everything. But I was marked for military research early on. I'm smart enough, don't get me wrong, but that's normally the kind of thing they save for after you prove yourself. Normally you have to tier up a few times."

"But your dad…" I say, toweling off my hair.

"I don't know for certain, but I think he pulled some strings. You're not going to ask who he is?"

"You didn't ask me who I lost," I point out. "It's obviously a touchy subject for you." I start pulling on my clothes.

That's definitely a smile. "Thanks, Chris."

I shrug as I do up my belt. "I have to at least pretend to be a decent being, don't I?" My shoes slid on easily.

"I'm glad you're trying to spare my feelings." He pulls on his tunic. "Talk later?"

I nod. "Yeah, sure." I make to leave, but Amulius gasps and places his talons on my shoulder.

"Before you go…be careful around Aristides. He's not a fan of yours."

I turn to face the turian, who lets go of my shoulder. "I thought I caught that. Is there something I should know?"

Amulius sits down on a bench. "Probably not my place to say, but we think he's got something for Abby. Never makes a move, but there you have it."

Oh hell. I sleep with a girl, and she's got a 'nice guy' friend. I sigh, closing my eyes. "Dammit. Thanks for warning me, Amulius. He hangs out around her quite a bit, right?"

He's giving a very human nod as I open my eyes. "Yeah."

I lean back against the wall. "Something to deal with, I guess."

"Good luck with that."

"Yeah, thanks."

* * *

Normally, working on a laser is a good way for me to clear my mind. It is involving work, to say the least. My designs involve a miniaturized free-electron laser, multiple computer controls, advanced power systems, a dual-phase heat dispersal system for both atmospheric and vacuum operation, and an eezo-based adaptive optics system. Two years ago I knew how to build none of these. Hell, I barely knew the basic operating principles of the components, and nothing about how eezo worked other than positive current increases mass, negative current decreases mass.

It's impressive how much free time you can have in a hospital during recovery.

I connect my workbench's autoforge to a supply of omnigel, and command it to build a pistol frame. I've got plenty of orders to fill. There's a quiet hum as the autoforge gets to work.

More than anything, I owe my success as a gunsmith to the rapid prototyping ability that omnigel forging allows. Back home, to make a proper prototype would require ingenuity and a set of tools that I frankly didn't have the skills to operate, or funding and a partner with the tools and skills. Even a mock-up would take some serious work. Here? I've got a 3D printer on steroids on my wrist. Given enough omnigel and the proper design, you can make almost anything. Long live the cottage industry. And for someone who can afford a proper autoforge, like me? I can turn out pieces that rival the quality of the biggest companies by myself.

Just not at the same speed or in the same quantity. Which leaves me with free time as the autoforge assembles the frame. I place my personal carry piece on the bench, frowning at it. The pistol is my primary testbed for upgrades, but nothing is coming to mind. To keep my hands busy, I start a takedown on the weapon, undoing the primary cowling and exposing the radiating fins.

Unfortunately, I'm a little too familiar with this gun, and a takedown and cleaning is automatic, leaving my brain far too free to ponder my current situation.

I'm no further along with answering my earlier questions about what I should do. No, scratch that. I'm just not liking the answers my actions are leading me to. I met with Abby and had a real good time with her friends. In fact, I get the feeling that I'm going to get along really well with Amulius. By all rights, I should feel ecstatic. It's not exactly like I've been overburdened with friends the last two years. The closest I've come to making a friend before last weekend was a self-destructive tryst with another patient and making a certain Clerk Bosker's day when he realized he'd just brought a possible biotic recruit into the Alliance.

_Fuck_, I've been depressing.

But I'm not exactly jumping for joy. What, am I still holding onto the vain hope that I'm going to get back someday? Is that it? Connections will just make it harder to jump into that glowing wormhole with an EXIT sign floating above it? I always thought I was more of a realist than that. I'm here, and by all rights, I'm staying here. Why shouldn't I make a few friends?

I shake my head as an image of *****'s smiling face swims into view. I'm not betraying her, dammit! I'll always love her, but I'm never going to see her again. I slam my hand into the bench. That's fact, no matter how much I wish it wasn't.

I know full well that she wouldn't like to see me like I was. Just working, training, and studying, with only the occasional night at the bar spent drinking painful memories into submission. It's no way to live. But then, neither is lying to every person you meet, and I really don't see myself stopping that anytime soon.

You know, universe jumping sucks. A lot.

"What do you think, dear?" I murmur, concentrating on the image of my fiancée.

She's smiling, but it's a sad sort of smile. Hell if I know what it means.

"Real helpful, dear." I shake my head again and start reassembling my pistol. "Chalk another one up for the 'I'm insane' theory." The cowling clicks back into place. "I really can't keep this shit up." I check the functionality of the reflex sighting, and place the pistol down, scrubbing my hands across my face. "I guess I'm going to have to try and be human again, huh?"

I just wish it didn't feel like surrender. The autoforge dings, and I start assembling the new laser. That, at least, pushes my brooding away.

It's not until I'm finished with the gross assembly of my fourth pistol of the day that I realize that I've still got a problem. To wit, I've got no idea what to do with Aristides. No matter what I might decide in the end with Abby, she certainly likes me well enough, and has made no bones about the fact that she's going to be flirty. And I know myself well enough to know that I'm going to be flirty back.

That's not likely to sit well with 'Rizzy'.

I sit back and sigh.

Especially not since, if I'm going to brutally honest, I'm likely to end up drunkenly sleeping with her again.

Well, at least he's not likely to be an ex-Compact assassin. Too young, and while he's better than me with a sword, he's not _that_ good. Unless he's just hiding his real skill…

I shake my head. That's harder done than said, and the age argument still applies. Besides, he was winded after the bouts, and convincingly so. And I've got to think that Amulius would have warned me if Aristides had attacked any of Abby's previous flings. Talk about your worst case scenarios.

I grab the frame for a fifth pistol, spinning the polymer, alloy, and carbon fiber assembly around on a finger. I'm letting my imagination get away from me. If I'm being realistic, I'm likely to run into passive-aggressive behavior, and him talking behind my back. I've dealt with that shit from plenty of co-workers, and to be fair, dished it out myself. Avoiding that was one of the bonuses to being a depressing recluse, I suppose.

So, I've got to give up on ever being best friends with Aristides. Fine. I can live with that. So long as he doesn't start a campaign to make me look like a Cerberus cell leader, I can tolerate an unfriendly face or two to gain some friends. It's doubtful that I'll ever be too close with Aristides or Eulalia, but I'll be dammed if I run away from my first chance to have some friends in years. Abby's way too much fun, and Amulius is a pretty good guy. I don't know that I'll ever get over the whole master-student thing with Eric, and Silvia and Tomas are question marks, but I owe it to myself to try.

I spin the frame to a stop in my grip. And I owe it to myself to keep a glowing eye out just in case we are dealing with a worst case scenario.

* * *

It's halfway through pistol number seven that I get a page on my omnitool. Suppressing the reflex to immediately check the message, I finish soldering in a power regulator and then place the half-assembled pistol in a clear space. Only then do I switch the omnitool over to its communication function. Having so many tools on your wrist is neat, but it can occasionally get annoying if you don't have a proper multitasking routine.

I make a mental note to visit Saronis Applications for just that.

The VI has tagged the message as potentially interesting, which probably means a customer. Tapping at my workbench, I look over the sender address. No one I know. Word of mouth is my primary advertising, but none of my customers mentioned a referral. I shrug, idly keying in a modification to the VI's parameters to bring messages from the sword club to my attention.

Six more pop up.

"Son of a bitch." Now what? I scan the list. Three messages from Abby, one from Amulius, one from Eric, and a schedule for meetings.

Eric's message is pretty standard stuff, going over places where I can pick up equipment for club meetings. I make special note of the outfitters for the fluid jackets. Most places that sell those will also carry a line of low-profile everyday wear with the same functionality, or offer a modification service. With only so much time until the geth hit the Citadel, a little body armor seems like a good investment, and if it's stuff I can wear every day, so much the better. I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up on the Presidium during the attack, what with my luck.

Of course, if my luck is that bad, I'm likely to just get splattered no matter what I do. I shake my head to stop that morbid line of though. I'm alive, even though by all rights I should be dead. And there's nothing that guarantees death like lying down and waiting for it. So yeah, low-profile armor.

Amulius's message is his contact information and an invitation to page him whenever if I want to hang out. I nearly do so immediately to keep myself from putting it off until eternity but hold back. Abby's messages wait, and given that she left three, it's probably a good idea to check on them.

Contact info and invitation to use it, teasing message with pictoral enhancement (that gets an eyebrow raise and a shift in my seat), and a gentle reminder to not get all wrapped up in work.

Yeah, I'll have to make some time with both of them. Maybe the visit to Saronis? I've practically forgotten what it's like to pick over an electronics store with some friends. And if I bring both of them, it won't be like a date, so Abby won't go too far with her teasing.

Oh, who am I kidding, she probably will.

I close Abby's last message and nod. I'll send them a page, right after I check this last, mystery message.

The message is pretty simple stuff. A request for a meeting to hash out terms and provide a demonstration. That's normal enough, and could mean any number of things, from a rich gun-obsessed collector, to a mob boss who wants something to drop anyone who comes calling. Let's hope for the collector. I'm a lot less likely to get shot like that.

Unless we have a case of some serious insanity…but that's a far from likely situation. I shoot off a reply leaving the time and place for the meeting up to the client with the basic caveat of leaving it during time that I can spare. With that taken care of, I send messages to Amulius and Abby, asking them if they want to come along to Zakera Ward tomorrow.

* * *

It's no surprise to see Abby's impish grin as I climb out of one of the Citadel's many public transfer aircars. Amulius pulls the turian equivalent of rolling his eyes. Either Abby just made a comment, or I'm walking into a joke. Quite possibly both.

"Well, I see you've managed to pull yourself away from your cave."

I shake my head. "Caves are at a bit of a premium on the Citadel. Best I could do was to rent a small warehouse."

"There's one in that big park on Shalta Ward," points out Amulius.

"One, it's fake, two, it's way out of my price range."

"Three," interrupts Abby, "It has no bats. What kind of workshop cave lacks bats, I ask you?"

I wince at the horribly out of date Batman reference. Amulius just looks confused. I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised. Abby does like old things. As the turian opens his mouth, I shake my head. "Don't ask."

"Ah. A human thing."

"Sure, let's go with that."

"So where are we going?" asks Abby with a grin.

"Well, I need to get some new applications for my omnitool, so I wanted to hit Saronis."

"Isn't there one closer to your apartment?" asks the turian.

"Sure, but I like the clerk at this one. He's actually helpful. God knows what he's doing working as a shop clerk." I point towards a stairway. "This way."

Abby clucks her tongue. "He's that good?"

I nod. "Funny too. If I ever expand my business, I might see about bringing him onboard for IT."

Amulius flicks his mandibles in the equivalent of a noncommittal 'hmmm'. "Abby says that you're a gunsmith?"

I nod and bring up my omnitool as we walk, flicking the virtual equivalent of a business card at him. The Mover app can eat its heart out. "I'm the owner and sole employee of Valentine Diverse Optics, Citadel Space's last word in personal-scale directed energy weapons." The spiel comes out buttery-smooth, as it should. It's my sales pitch. It's also true. For how long is an open question, but the simple fact is that no one else seems to have jumped on the bandwagon yet.

To watch a turian whistle is a somewhat eerie experience, what with them having no lips. It's moments like this that remind me of their avian qualities. "That's…impressive."

I shrug. "Believe it or not, my work is actually incremental, not revolutionary. I just put a few technologies together that no one had bothered to before. I fully expect one of the big companies to overshadow me in the next few years."

"There's always room for high-end custom work," he points out.

I nod. "And there you have my business plan. Besides, it'll take them a while to work out all the parameters for the VI." We exit the stairs and head for Saronis.

"There's a Rodam Expeditions near here," points out the turian. "Have you thought about trying to get them as a vendor?"

"I don't know. I've been focusing on the military, mercenary, and law enforcement markets."

Abby sighs. "Amulius, did you really have to get him focused on work?"

The turian's expression is confused. "This is work?"

"Turians." Abby shakes her head. "I swear, you're as bad as my sister."

I nearly choke at that. Amulius ignores her.

"Rodam is a hunting store, sure, but it's also a chain that the influential and rich get most of their firearms from. They practically define the high-end market in Citadel Space."

"Guess it couldn't hurt. I suppose I could…" I take one look at Abby's expression and amend my sentence. "…go visit them later."

She smiles and I duck into the Saronis Applications.

* * *

Two hours later and about five applications and subroutines richer, we say goodbye to Marab and leave the shop. Geeks and an electronics shop. More than a century and a half and light-years away, but some things just don't change.

"I see why you like him," says Abby. "He knows his stuff."

"A shame that his family can't send him to SIT," muses Amulius. "He'd fit right in."

"I think I'm going to have to expand, if only to get him out of there." I tap my chin, trying to decide when I started caring that much about the friendly clerk. Sure, he was always a favorite shopkeeper back in the old world, but I've spent a lot of emotionally detached time over the last two years. I guess trying to be human again has all sorts of unexpected effects.

"Mr. Valentine?" asks a gravelly voice from behind me.

I turn around and blanch. It's Thane Krios.

* * *

A/N: Yeah...that took a while to get out. Frankly I'm not entirely happy with the quality of this one, but writing everyday events in an interesting manner has always been a bit of a challenge, especially in first person. And frankly? I'd rather not sit on this one for a month or more dodging back in and out of writer's block. Just don't be surprised to see an edit in the near future. For those who stuck with me through the wait, thank you, and hopefully the next chapter will come out faster, and be more exciting. After all, Thane just showed up.

Thanks as well to everyone who reviewed and favorited. I hope you continue to read and enjoy. Till next time.


	3. Chapter 3

Folks, I have some bad news. I will no longer be working on Flux Effect.

Unfortunately, looking at the chapters I wrote so far, I decided that what there was wasn't shaping up to be the beginning of a good story.

At only two chapters in, it was tempting to stick with the story longer and see if it could be salvaged. After all, I had so many ideas for how things could go, and I still think that there was the seed of a story I really wanted to tell in the whole thing. But there was too much dragging it down. A SI with the potential for biotics? Coming into the universe and inheriting a small fortune? These are rather Stuish traits that taking an explosion to the face and losing a fiancée and child in the universe jump just don't balance, or at least that's how I feel. For a guy who had an engine blow up in his face, Chris was having it a little too easy. Hell, he sleeps with someone in the first chapter! And all that rehab in the hospital? Important character defining moments? Completely skipped over. Ugh. What was I thinking?

Like I said though, there were a lot of things I liked. I rather liked the first chapter. Though it was a little weak on some parts (mostly the angst), I thought there were some really good lines there. I loved the idea of making someone who had biotic potential, but viewed it, rightly so, as a handicap. The idea of a gunsmith who works with out there weapons concepts was fun. I was looking forward to exploring Amulius (oh, I had such plans for him). And writing a Mass Effect fic as a military sci-fi? Still gets a smile from me. I enjoy thinking of the tech and tactics that each race would use, little quirks that inform characterization…culture and characters. And I had plans to bring military aviation more into the fore.

But with the specter of Stu creeping up on the story, and with the second chapter showing me my limitations writing in first-person present, I decided to close the book on Flux Effect. For those of you who enjoyed it and were looking forward to more, I am sorry. But there is some light here, because I'm not done writing. I've gone ahead and taken the strong bits and forged a new story out of them. It's written as a memoir, and starts at the very beginning. The first chapter is already up on FFN. If you're interested, look for _Going In For Guns: A Memoir of the Reaper Wars._

And if you're pissed at me? Well, my SI gets shot in the very first chapter, so there's that.

Hoping you like the new story,

-Valentine Diverse Optics


End file.
